The Demon Edge
by Fraternity
Summary: Told through the eyes of DotA heroes such as Purist, Traxex, Gondar, Balanar and many more; this story depicts their role in events beginning from the death of Illidan through Sunwell and ending just before the Archaeus invasion.
1. Prologue

_Sentenced to death by the Six._ Ari'el stormed out of the cell he had been locked in. What was left of it anyway. _How dare they!_ The two sorcerers guarding him lay dead, their bodies half mutated to resemble a furry animal, by the gaping hole that had once been the door to the cell. A loud shrill sound rippled through the air as Ari'el strode down the corridor.

_Wards, an interesting safeguard Rhonin, but not enough!_ Already the mage could hear the clattering of steel boots as soldiers rushed blindly up the staircase. Pathetic fools, he thought. I don't have time to deal with all this. Glancing around, he noticed that the stained glass windows were not reinforced. A small blast of arcane sent flying towards the glass shattered the window, sending the tinkling shards towards the ground in a thousand deadly pieces. Clambering upon the sill, he leapt off and cast a minor levitation spell on himself. Falling slowly, Ari'el didn't fail to appreciate the serene beauty of Dalaran City – his home. Or at least it was.

Sticking with his plan, Ari'el quickly ducked into the nearest entrance into the underground catacombs. His target was the Vault, from there he could steal the fabled Aghanim's Scepter and lock himself in long enough to perform the reverse ritual. The reverse ritual was a secret the wizard had stumbled across in his younger days. Turning the last corner that led to the Vault, Ari'el stopped dead as he saw who the guards were. _Impossible!_

"Give yourself up old friend, your skills are great but you cannot possibly take out both of us," said the glowing form.

"Do you really think I would give up the only thing I have left Ezalor?" Ari'el sneered.

"There are things in this world, more horrible than a quick death," replied the Keeper.

"There are also branches of magic that the Magi here are afraid to tap. Imagine the possibilities Ezalor! I can do better than a quick death. I am done with the Kirin Tor!"

"Did you think that you are the only mage to ever walk down the path you plan to walk? A fate worse than death awaits you at the end! "

"No…that is a lie! I would know. I am not a blind fool! I have a guide!" countered the mage.

"What are you talking," The Keeper's face went pale and his eyes narrowed, "Kel'Thuzad! He's behind this isn't he?"

"I don't want to do this but you leave me no choice, old friend. Guarding this vault is my duty, my punishment for my lack of foresight in the War of the Magi. I won't let you make the same mistake I did Ari'el." Ezalor started to glow brighter as torrents of holy magic filled him.

Ari'el grinned and clasped his hands together. _As predictable as always, old friend._

Quickly muttering the unique countercurse he had developed, clenching his left hand in a fist, the sheath of light surrounding the Keeper suddenly seemed to strangle him. Slowly lessening his hold, Ari'el finished his spell. He didn't want to kill him- he owed Ezalor that much for past friendship.

Turning his attention away from the Keeper of the Light, he found ignis Faatus, Ezalor's insperaable companion, feebly attempting to cast a fireball. Raising both hands, Ari'el felt the familiar surge of power as the Arcane filled him. Directing the flow of magic, Ari'el deftly wove a complicated spell he had used many times before. A shrill scream emanated from the glowing orb-like wisp. Its light began to grow blindingly bright before suddenly, it winked out. Ari'el grimaced. Ezalor would never forgive him.

Quickly retrieving the key from the unconscious body of Ezalor he unlocked the large doors and strode into the Vault of Dalaran.

Locking himself in, Ari'el grabbed the scepter and proceeded to cast. Channeling through the scepter, the aged wizard felt the familiar surge of power but this time it felt a little incomplete. The legendary scepter flashed red instead of its fabled blue. _What is happening, could I have made a mistake? _

Pain erupted from all over his body; it felt like he was being torn apart and pulled through a wormhole as a cold sinister voice echoed through his head.

FOOLISH MORTAL...YOU SERVE ME NOW!

* * *

Ten thousand miles to the North-West of Dalaran, deep within the tranquil Night Elven city of Darnassus stood an Ancient. Rooftrellen stood motionless, enjoying the crisp cool air of the morning after a full moon. His leaves rustled slightly in the morning breeze. Something big had happened, he could feel it. The echoes of powerful magic resonated from the north like giant tidal waves and for the first time since the War of the Ancients, Rooftrellen felt small and insignificant.

A low hum filled the air as runes of magic sprung to life around the structure next to the Treant Protector. Slowly rotating for several seconds, the bright blue runes suddenly converged at a point just beside Rooftrellen. There was a flash as the runes seemed to implode. Then the humming stopped and next to the building stood a Night Elf in light leather armor with a quiver on her back but no bow in hand. Instead she held a scroll.

Murmuring a greeting to the Ancient that resided in Darnassus, the elf ran swiftly towards the Temple of the Moon. Ignoring the greeting of the pair of Moon Guards at the entrance the elf dashed through the mazelike corridors of the Temple, narrowly avoiding a young priestess and entered the inner chambers of prayer and meditation.

The chamber was dimly lit, and the elf could only make out the outline of the figure in the chamber. The elf paused for a moment, partly for breath, but mostly hoping the priestess would begin the explanation of this disaster without prompt. However, the priestess remained motionless, her back to the elf seeming not to even be aware of the intruder. Before her lay the body of Malfurion Stormrage.

"By Elune, what is the meaning of this!" cried the elf, unable to take the silence any longer.

"Ishnu-alah Thero'shan. And what, I pray, may you be referring to?" came the softly spoken response.

"This!" the elf and unfurled the scroll that had been clutched tightly in her fist and started to read.

"The time has ended when we could quietly protect this world from both its enemies and itself. By the order of the General of the Sentinel the ranks of the Sentinel are now operating under Call-to-Arms. Regardless of race, all Watchers are hereby ordered to openly aid any living creature when possible. Any previous protocols that would shroud the Sentinel in secrecy is hereby void and not to be followed. Also the banner of the Sentinel is to be placed within all….need I say more?"

"Do you know where the majority of military might in Azeroth is at the moment Thero'shan?" asked the priestess quietly after a pause, her back still facing the newcomer.

"Recovering from the foolhardy crusade into the Out—" the elf started to reply.

"Nowhere," the priestess said flatly. "The Scourge has overrun Winterspring and Azshara in mere days. They are pressing into the forest of Ashenvale unopposed. How long do think the undead will swing west through Felwood and destroy the skeletal defense in Auberdine of Dark Shore to either invade Stormwind by sea or assault the Isles?"

"But surely—"

"Both the Alliance and the Horde will be hard pressed to move forces back into Azeroth quickly. There is no one left to defend Azeroth from this newly awakened threat in the North."

"But surely there is no need to taint an order nearly ten-thousand years old with other blood. Imagine the resentment amongst the current ranks. They are meant to be the elite!"

"Due to events in Outland, the relations between the Alliance and the Horde are worse than ever. Someone outside both factions must rally what was left behind to buy enough time for the mortal races to return to their homeland and defend it. How do you plan to do this if the Sentinel remains an elite Kaldorei military force?"

"How do I plan to what?"

"Have you ever been tired?" the Night Elf priestess changed the subject abruptly.

"What?"

"I am very tired Shandris. Sometimes I envy him," the priestess nodded towards the inert body of Malfurion Stormrage. "Sometimes duty forces us to walk a path the heart cannot follow. Yet sometimes fate is kind to those who wait. I think I will join him soon."

"Shan'do, what do you mean?"

The priestess stood suddenly and turned to place her hands lightly on the shoulders of the younger elf. One quick fluid motion that showed a grace the elf had always envied when training under the priestess.

"Tor ilisar'thera'nal! Shandris Feathermoon hereby succeeds me, Tyrannde Whisperwind, as the new General of the Sentinel. May you lead the Sentinel with wisdom and strength and be a powerful warder for Azeroth!"

Shandris reeled in shock. This wasn't supposed to happen, granted she had been training for this moment all her life but…this…this wasn't supposed to happen.

Not now. It was too soon.

"You can't just—" Shandris started to stammer.

"It's done! It has come to my knowledge that this threat in the North is not the biggest and soon we will be facing an even greater tragedy engineered by forces even older than the First War: One that will break this world. I must be in a position to help this world heal then and that position is not here."

"But who will take over the duties as High Priestess?"

"I will," interrupted a quiet voice from the doorway.

Cursing inwardly at herself for not noticing someone outside, Shandris wheeled around to find the younger priestess she had almost bumped into earlier.

"Shandris, I'd like you to meet Mirana Nightshade, the new High Priestess of the Moon. I believe you two will have much to talk about as you will be working closely together in the future. I'll leave you two to it. Ande'thoras-ethil!"

And before the eyes of her two young protégés, Tyrannde Whisperwind vanished.


	2. Upon Thin Ice

Its warmer here at least, Vorel mused as she strode briskly at the head of the Scourge supply train. If a singular wagon could be called a train anyway. Special delivery, deep through Scourge occupied territory by order of the Lich King himself: One wagon guarded by undead armed to the teeth. Must be some kind of demonic artifact to necessitate this much protection.

Letting out a long sigh the undead ranger pondered recent events. The power in the voice was gone, as had the grip the Lich King had over the entire undead Scourge; Vorel had felt no compulsion to do its bidding for a long time. It hadn't happened instantly, it had been kind of a slow gradual slip of control. She had behaved as normal –still did behave like all the others. Vorel wondered if the Lich King had noticed.

She had heard rumors amongst the San'layn of a legendary group of undead who had managed to tear away and betray the Lich King on one of his previous incursions into the Eastern Kingdoms. The stories whispered of the legendary Sylvanas Windrunner who now led the Forsaken from the birthplace of Arthas. Of course, it could be a lie but Vorel clung to it. It was hope. A hope, that her kind could have a chance at co-existing with the other races.

Her hand grasped the small metallic tag she had attached to the end of her bow. It had a name on it. Apparently it had been found on the corpse of a Forsaken soldier. She doubted the story, but she had stolen it anyway.

Vorel froze. Some call it intuition, others call it luck. Either way, Vorel had a feeling that something was wrong. It's too quiet.

Wordlessly she halted the wagon with a raised fist and notched her bow with an arrow from her quiver. It was a motion well practiced both when she was alive and now. The arrow had a titansteel shaft and a saronite razorhead. But instead of the dull green, the arrowhead was black.

Her mind registered the soft whistle of a missile flying through the air the moment it landed a foot away from her.

The spear was fully covered with glyphs but more importantly, it was burning. Vorel shut her eyes and hit the ground. Behind her she heard sounds of confusion as most of the undead got blinded by the flash the spear let off as it exploded. Strangely, no attacks came.

"Well mon, I was gonna ask what a regiment of Forsakan was doing here, but you ain't no Forsaken you all dem Scourge!"

Vorel lifted her head off the snow and saw six cloaked figures each at least seven feet tall in front of her. Trolls.

"There all dumb!" cackled the troll on the far left watching the majority of the undead wander in disorientation. "I say we kill them all!"

Behind her, a warrior roared and charged blindly at the source of laughter. Pathetic mindless fool!

The troll still cackling charged to meet the undead soldier head on. The loud clang shattered the peaceful serenity of Winterspring as the ridiculously large broadsword was met by a one-handed axe.

From her position on the ground, Vorel could see beneath the troll's hood. The troll's eyes were closed and there was a big grin on his face. The warrior lasted only a brief moment as from within the folds of the troll's cloak a second axe came twirling out and sliced through the skeleton's spine. The skeleton collapsed, lifeless once again.

His opponent dispatched in mere seconds, the troll back flipped to his original position.

"Jah'rakal mon, that's inefficient. You gotta do it like this!" said another troll.

Taking off his hood, he revealed a skin as pale as some Drakkari trolls. White hair fluttering in the breeze, he extended his left hand in a fist. An expectant expression crossed the troll's face.

Nothing happened.

The troll frowned as the remaining undead started to charge at the lone troll a step in front of the others.

"Looks like ya lost ya touch Rhasta," said another troll.

"No mon, I'm just thinking," replied Rhasta.

"At a time like this?" the troll asked incredulous.

"Ya mon… o well."

Rhasta's left fist unclenched as the first of the undead reached him and suddenly lighting arced from his fingertips, shocking all the remaining undead, killing them instantly. The smell of smoke and charred bones filled the air. The entire regiment electrocuted in a second.

"Ya missed one Rhasta," Jah'rakal said gleefully pointing at Vorel. She froze. She had rolled over trying to reach her dagger. Her hand clasped around an empty hilt. Damn. The dagger must have fallen when she had dropped to the ground. So this is it then, the end.

Glancing up, Vorel caught the flash of sunlight reflecting off steel as the troll landed next to her, axes slashing downwards towards her throat. She closed her eyes – waiting to die. Again.

* * *

Balanar cursed as he strode down the winding corridor of the ziggurat that had been recently built on the border between Winterspring and Felwood. Of course, the old residents had been evicted. Some Ursa clan that called themselves The Woodmaw or Timberjaw or something had resisted. Their remaining number were fleeing, the rest were dead. Minor details. The important part was that their tunnels were now the primary pathway for supply lines and were kept under constant guard.

The Dread Lord had been given command of this incursion south. But in his ambition, Balanar feared he had now over extended his hand. Someone had been cutting off his southbound supply line in Winterspring and his scouts in Ashenvale reported massive gatherings of soldiers –all of different race. He hoped to use their mistrust against them and eventually turn them against each other. But right now he was spread too far and too thin.

But that wasn't his biggest problem. Those problems could fix themselves given time. His problem was time. He didn't have time.

He had just been ordered to report to the Lich King direct, and although progress looked excellent, in reality he was locked down. No way to advance without further resources. No way back. Retreating meant failure – and failure meant demise by Frostmourne, the Lich King's rune blade, which was worse than death. The same if he didn't make progress before long.

He entered his command center to find it empty. Pacing this chamber, he went through his options. Tell the truth or dare he lie? One almost led to certain death, the other…might just prolong his existence long enough to allow him to fix his mistakes.

REPORT, DREAD LORD! DO NOT KEEP ME WAITING.

The voice was cold, dark and menacing. A voice filled with power and hatred.

Caught off guard, Dread Lord spun around to face a 30 feet tall avatar of the Lich King. Quickly kneeling he stuttered out his report leaving the major problems either extremely vague or left out altogether. Finishing, he waited expectantly. A massive rune blade appeared in the hands of the avatar. Shit! Balanar shut his eyes.

YOU HAVE DONE WELL, BALANAR. YOU HAVE PROGRESSED FASTER AND FURTHER THAN I HAD EXPECTED.

"Th-thank you my lord," Balanar looked up hopefully at the Lich King. Could he have not detected his lies? "My lord, what may I do for you?" he said quickly, hoping to deter his report from further scrunity. The Lich King paused, as if considering.

I HAVE DECIDED TO TEST A WEAPON. IT HAS ALREADY BEEN DISPATCHED. MY GIFT TO YOU DREAD LORD: A RUNEBLADE FORGED IN IMITATON TO MY OWN.

"Frostmourne? But Frostmourne is a relic of th—"

USE IT WISELY. IF THINGS ARE AS SMOOTH AS YOU SAY, I EXPECT ALL OF KALIMDOR TO BURN BY WINTER.

"Yes…yes my lord, an excellent plan. Thank you my lord, may...may Kalimdor burn," stammered Balanar. Shit! He knows!

The avatar turned away as if the Lich King was communicating with another. Balanar waited trembling, mind racing.

SEE TO IT DREADLORD. KEL'THUZAD WILL SEND A NEW CREATION OF HIS TO ASSIST YOU.

The avatar vanished, leaving behind only a dire warning echoing through Balanar's head.

REMEMBER…THE PRICE...OF FAILURE.

The Dread Lord remained kneeling with his head bowed for a long time. He had dug himself into a very deep hole. Now he hoped he wouldn't be buried in it. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid. This was because if the Lich King had sent him a weapon, then it should have been here by now.

* * *

So this is death, Vorel thought. It's not so bad. The only pain she could feel was a stinging on her cheek, no sudden fabled weightlessness, no light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, she felt nothing but the cold wet ground below her, slowly chilling her very bones.

"This not cool Rhasta, lemme go!" said a glum voice.

Vorel cracked her eyes open to find the gleaming edge of an axe inches from her face. The troll holding it was immobile, struggling inside what looked like a glowing orange net of energy. A cut on her cheek was slowly dripping blood on the white snow.

"Wait ah meenit mon," said the aged shaman. "Dis one seems different!"

"Yo right mon! It be bleeding, I din no them undead could bleed!" said Jah'rakal looking at her closely.

"No, not that mon, she seems to have a will of her own. Not like dem Scourge!"

Rolling away from the shackled troll before standing up, Vorel looked up to see the magical net start from the shaman's right hand. Seeing a way out, she grasped it, her mind recalling the name on her keepsake trinket.

"He's right. My name is Traxex. I am Forsaken." she bluffed.

"Forsakan?" asked another troll. This one was standing in the middle of the group. His leathery hands gripped a staff with human skulls upon it. "Wat is ah Forsakan doin wid ah bunch o' Scourge?"

"I can't say, but I need to return to the birthplace of Arthas immediately!"

"Yoo mean the Undercity?"

"Yes," said Vorel and bit her lip.

"Whats in the Wagon then wee Forsakan?" asked the troll.

"Some kind of demonic artifact, it was to be delivered to a Dread Lord named Balanar. He commands this invasion. No further instructions were given."

"Well then," the troll paused as if considering something. He glanced back at his fellow trolls, who nodded as if agreeing to a decision. He nodded back slowly. "Huskar, go get ya spear back. Jin'zakk! Jah'rakal! Go get dis demonic artifact."

The trolls sprang into action and went about their tasks with a military discipline that rivaled the mindless undead.

"Ma name is Vol'jin, we are o' da Darkspear Tribe," said the troll. "We escort you an that artifact back towards friendly territory. For the Horde!"

Vorel nodded reluctantly. She would get to see this Banshee Queen, and whatever happened next would be better than becoming another lifeless corpse anyway. She was surprised however, at how readily the trolls seemed to accept her. The hope in her undead heart burned brighter.

"Let's get going then," said Vol'jin looking up at the gloomy sky before turning his back to her and started trudging away from the ambushed supply train. It had begun to snow again.

"Come on, if we hurry, the snows will cover our tracks by mid-day," he called over his shoulder.

Silently, with a quick glance back at her fallen regiment, Vorel followed the trolls south.


	3. The Prodigy

Two – The Prodigy

Shendelzare flinched as the giant blade stopped an inch from her throat.

"Again!"

Gasping for breath, she stumbled back into position. Beside her, her opponent gracefully returned to a guard stance. Her elegant broadsword held effortlessly in front of her.

"Go!" said her sister, her blade flicking towards the start of Arc of the Moon.

Shendelzare's tired limbs clumsily performed Lion on the Hill to block. The blades clashed and locked. The younger elf took a step back before trying to rush in again with her blade directed at the abdomen, a good move to draw first blood or inflict nonlethal damage on an opponent – Parting the Silk.

Motred countered with Lightning of Three Prongs, followed by a quick Grapevine Twines to disarm her.

Shendelzare fell to her knees, her head hung in defeat. Her blade now lay three feet away from her. She waited for the lecture, but the customary commentary on her training didn't come. She looked up to see Motred with her sword raised facing away from her towards the forest.

The forest was silent. Not even the sound of birds in the morning.

"Show yourself stranger, I have no patience for your games."

"Well well well, so perhaps the stories of a prodigy amongst the Silkwood Clan are more than just stories after all." a drawl came from the forest. "I must say I am quite surprised you detected my presence at all."

"Who are you? Show yourself!"

A Night Elf un-melded from the shadows and strode towards the sisters. Her face was painted with markings, and her long cloak wrapped around her trailing to the ground. A Templar – one who was considered one of the best amongst the Wardens.

"Motred isn't it," the new comer stated. It wasn't a question. "There are always rumors, some are hard to believe. So I wish to see for myself, the strength of the Silkwood Phantom." Stepping up beside Shendlezare, she took the customary bow beginning a duel.

Motred bowed back cautiously. Then immediately leapt backwards sword raised back into a guard position. Shendlezare recognized it as Leaf floating in the Breeze. A good guard form against many different types of attack.

The Templar smiled and sent a dagger towards Motred which she dodged easily. The dagger thudded into the tree behind her. Motred charged in. Cat Crosses the Courtyard turned to The Swallow takes Flight as Motred slashed downwards towards the Templar who still hadn't drawn a second weapon.

The sword passed cleanly through the Templar -only the Templar wasn't there. Immediately switching to Swallow Rides the Air, Motred blocked the dagger from behind –barely. Backing away, she regained distance from the Templar.

"I must say I'm a little disappointed in you Motred." taunted the Templar. "You're slow!"

Shendlezare could see a small twitch on Motred's lips. For any other elf, it meant they were laughing. She was obviously enjoying this.

"I am surprised such simple tricks allowed you to obtain a Templar title." Motred replied. "Basic light distortion: Such a pity you need to rely on such petty tricks."

"Oh, I have more than just petty tricks, young Warden."

"Show me then," Motred roared and swung her blade in a large downward arc. A moment later, shadows enveloped her and her form blurred. The Phantom reappeared to the right of the Templar.

Shendlezare caught a brief glimpse of the Templar in invisibility before she disappeared again. The blade swung downwards through thin air.

"I told you I had more than petty tricks, young Warden," said the Templar from the shadows. "If you are considered a prodigy amongst the Silkwood, then I would hate to see—"

She was cut off midway, as her own dagger was hurled back at her. Leaping deftly sideways she came out of her stealth only to find the young prodigy known as the Phantom behind her again with her broadsword slashing downwards.

The slash was blocked by twin daggers held together in a cross. The Templar had twisted herself at the last instant to do so. Sliding the daggers down the blade, the Templar knocked the broadsword out of Motred's hands and sent it spinning away. Taking advantage of the temporary opening, Motred's left fist shot out towards her opponent's face -only to be caught by the Templar as the blades jutting out of the Phantom's wrist guard were fractions from her target.

"And you have the nerve to call ME petty," snarled the Templar.

Motred grinned back.

The dueling pair stayed like this for a few seconds before the Phantom freed her wrist, leapt backwards and blinked back at the Templar whilst still in the air.

The Templar met the attack with a twisted Unfolding the Fan. Her newly drawn blade glowed faintly, almost transparent. Its jagged edge almost invisible in the daylight.

"Enough!" the Templar said, "Your reputation is well deserved young Warden, perhaps one day, you will become one of us."

Once again, Motred disengaged and leapt backwards. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating look on her face. Shendlezare didn't think the Templar noticed, but she wasn't sure.

"What do you want?" asked Shendlezare, speaking up for the first time.

The Templar vanished and reappeared before her with a scroll in her hand. "I have a message for your father, General Silkwood is it not?" she said as she handed the scroll to Shendlezare. Once again, it wasn't a question.

"I wish you both luck then, it looks like you're going to need it. Ande'thoras-ethil." The Templar said grimly as her form started to distort and fade as she walked away.

"Wait!" Motred called. "I don't have your name!"

The Templar paused, then continued walking, disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

"My name is Lanaya," the shadows replied.


	4. A Frosty Meeting

Three – A Frosty Meeting

The guard watched as a lone paladin approached the mage ruled city of Dalaran.

Dressed in full armor with a mace across his back the paladin dismounted from his tired horse and removed his helm.

"Good morning, milord," saluted the footman.

"Morning soldier, I trust everything is in order?"

"Indeed sir, I believe the Council is waiting for you."

"Late already am I?" the paladin smiled to himself as he left his horse with the guard and walked through the gate.

Behind him, the guard visibly relaxed. After all it wasn't everyday a lowly footman met a member of the Silver Hand. Or maybe there is something else…

They called him Purist Thunderwrath. The first was for his cause, the latter for his hammer. An orphan of war, wandering through the aftermath of a battle, he had been found by Uther the Lightbringer whilst scavenging for food. Uther had taken him in and raised him as a son. Fifteen years later, Purist had been with Uther whilst Artha's destroyed Stratholme. However, when the Lightbringer fell, he had not.

At this moment in time however, Purist was frustrated. Firstly, because it was midday, he was in full armor and it was stifling hot. Secondly, because he had no idea why he had been ordered here in the first place. Thirdly, because he would much rather be joining the war effort against the Scourge. Lastly, he was frustrated because he was tired of dreaming the same dream each night.

It had been the same for the last three nights now. He would be underwater, searching. Always searching but never finding. He had come close last night.

He could feel it. If only he hadn't been startled awake by the approaching messenger. Lost in his reverie, he turned a corner and—

"Ow! Watch it you clumsy oaf!"

Purist looked down to see a young woman sprawled on the ground with a staff clutched tightly in her grasp. Purist marked her as a mage immediately. The magus was wearing a deep blue hood that almost concealed her golden curls.

She had obviously been in a hurry to leave the city.

"Sorry my lady," he said as he removed his gauntlet. Holding out a hand to help her up, Purist thought he felt a chill creep up his arm as the mage accepted it.

"Hmm," the woman mused as her clear blue eyes looked him up and down.

"You didn't see me. I wasn't here. This never happened. Got it?" she said a moment later.

"Got it," replied Purist slightly puzzled. He didn't question her further though. Magi were all strange. Usually the more powerful they became, the less sane they were. That's what he believed anyway.

Purist watched as the mage hurried away as he replaced his gauntlet. He felt chills race down his spine. He wasn't hot anymore; he was freezing. Whoever she was, by the Light, she was powerful. Putting his dreams and the woman out of his mind, he continued walking through the silent streets.

"Good day, sir. The Council has been waiting for you," said another footman as the paladin approached the steps of the Violet Citadel.

"Any idea what the mages have done this time soldier?" asked Purist in an offhand manner.

"What are you talking about sir?" replied the footman suddenly nervous.

"You know," said Purist his eyes narrowing. "The usual: Unexplained explosions, missing mages, outbreaks of plagues with magical origin, rogue mages…wasn't there an execution a few days ago?"

"I don't know sir, I am new here," the footman said. Purist watched as the footman's shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was hiding something and obviously nervous.

"But surely, you would have heard of something as big as mage being hung…" began the paladin. Purist thought he had a fair idea of why he had been sent to Dalaran now.

"Please sir, the Council is waiting for you," pleaded the poor footman. The man was obviously under orders to remain silent on the incident. Good man, Purist thought. Such a pity he was a terrible liar.

"Ah Purist, I thought I heard your dulcet tones," said an elderly voice from behind the footman. "Stop grueling the poor man and come inside. We don't have much time."

"Ezalor!" Purist exclaimed, as he quickened his pace to catch up to the old man. "I didn't expect to see you here. Shouldn't you be down by the Vaults or something?"

"In light of recent events, I now have other duties elsewhere," said the Keeper gruffly.

"Let me guess— " began Purist.

"Don't," interrupted Ezalor, "Save your shrewd deductions for the Six my friend. We're here anyway."

The pair entered the pitch black chamber where Six Mages of Dalaran held council. Their identities were generally kept secret, even from each other, although Purist knew a few and could guess at the names of a few others. In the darkness, Purist could see six vague figures. They stood still and unmoving like statues.

"Purist Thunderwrath," a mage began, "A member of our Order has recently turned traitor. After being discovered practicing necromancy, a capital offense, the Council of Six ordered his death! However, on the morning of his execution—"

"He escaped obviously," interrupted Purist. He had little patience for formalities.

"How did you—"started another mage.

"Then he entered the Vaults," continued Purist in a dry voice and a glance at Ezalor. "Disabled your wards and other protections, stole a magical artifact or artifacts before disappearing."

"Who tol—"stuttered the mage.

"Easy enough to deduce," explained the paladin with a smirk on his face. "All your footmen are on the edge, the streets are far too quiet and Ezalor isn't beneath the city anymore."

"But—"

"Oh, and I assume, due to my unique expertise, you want me to track down this rogue mage of yours," Purist said, interrupting the mage again.

"Well yes—"

"Excellent. Where do I start?"

The room was silent. Then a voice Purist recognized as Rhonin spoke. "North. We have reasons to believe Ari'el has gone north. Maybe even as far as Northrend."

Purist sighed. "Very helpful, now I only have to search the half of Azeroth occupied by Scourge! Can't you mages do any better?"

"You will not be searching alone. Ezalor will also be searching. There have been several locations resonating strong magical residue in the last few days. We believe Ari'el is trying to do something big."

Purist spared another glance at the vague form of his friend beside him. "Are you sure about this?"

"The Order is under alot of strain Purist," said Rhonin. "We all do what we can. Ezalor is stronger than he looks and will begin searching in Quel'thalas. He has connections there and the Blood Elves will be more likely to accept him."

"Wait, you mean—"

"Yes. We will teleport you to the Night Elf settlement of Auberdine in Dark Shore. You will begin searching north of there," said Rhonin as he began to cast. A rift appeared in front of the paladin. Purist could see scenes flash by him at a tremendous speed.

"Go my friend. May the Light forever shine upon you," whispered Rhonin as Purist stepped into the rift. "The fate of Azeroth could very well be resting on your shoulders paladin."


	5. Hunters

Four – Hunters

Ari'el woke to find himself on a cold stone floor. Slowly opening his eyes, he found he was not alone in his cell. Before him stood a red beast manacled to the walls. The beast's skin was full of freshly opened wounds that were slowly dripping blood onto the floor. A Fel Orc? Just where am I? The orc's eyes were closed and his head sagged on his chest in a sign of defeat.

"You are awake?" growled a voice from the door. Ari'el thought he heard a tang of disappointment in the voice as he turned to see his visitor. The door opened to reveal another beast. This one with resembled a wolf. Yet the wolf stood upright and moved with a fluid grace that would have rivaled the elves.

"The master wants to see you," the wolf growled and turned away.

"Wait! Where am I?" asked Ari'el as he scrambled to catch up with the wolf, his tattered robe trailing behind him. But the wolf continued to amble down the corridor ignoring him.

"Stop!" Ari'el reached out towards the familiar torrents of magic and felt it fill him. He began to cast polymorph.

The wolf turned around and Ari'el felt his eyes focus on his own. The wolf's eyes turned blood red as they made eye contact and Ari'el felt himself feeling uncontrollable anger. The emotion surged through him wildly until he felt himself shaking with rage. He felt like he had to lash out at something.

The magic slipped from his grasp but he didn't care anymore. He felt his body rush forward to do something he had not done, nor had to do, since he became a mage.

His fist was blocked by a furred paw.

"Do that again," the wolf snarled as his other paw clasped around his throat, "and you will lose that hand! The master never said to bring you in on-"

"Now now boys, there's no need for such violent behavior around a lady," giggled a soft voice from the end of the hallway.

The pair turned to find bright green eyes watching from the doorway. The newcomer's blue arms were folded across her chest and she was casually leaning against the doorframe.

"What do you want, Succubus?" asked the wolf warily.

The Succubus suddenly disappeared from her position by the doorway as Ari'el felt something cool beneath his chin.

"This one's new right?" asked the Succubus playfully as she angled Ari'el's head up towards her. "Don't be shy, I won't bite!"

"The Arch Lich wants to see him. We have no time for your games Akasha," growled the wolf from behind her.

"That's not what I'm hearing, Strygwyr," replied Akasha who was now behind the wizard her hands caressing his back. "The old man is tinkering with his toys again. He says; send the Blood Seeker to the dread lord. I'm guessing this one goes with you too."

"Regardless of what you say Succubus, I will ask Kel'Thuzad myself." Strygwyr replied and turned to leave. "Come you worthless lump, The Arch Lich wants to see you."

He was at the door when the succubus said, "Hey Strygwyr, remember to smile, okay?"

The Blood Seeker stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know. Those moods the old man gets in when his creations fail," the succubus replied carelessly, her attention seemingly to still be upon Ari'el. "You always said you would with a smile on your face."

Time seemed to stop for a moment as the Blood Seeker mulled over her words.

"Where does he want us to go?" grated Strygwyr through clenched teeth.

* * *

Balanar gazed deep into the orb for the second time that day as his vision blurred. He lost sight and sound of the world around him. Now there was only darkness.

_How you doin'_ a familiar voice echoed through the darkness.

_Useless! What kind of assistant arrives in pieces!_ he replied fuming.

_I thought you might say that. You can thank me later_.

_You have an idea?_

_Mmmhmmm. I've sent you new assistants._

_Don't waste my time. How could they possibly help me?_

_You owe me. I'll think about how you can pay it back later_.

_What assistants?_

_Some human...and the Blood Seeker._

Balanar inhaled sharply. The Blood Seeker was probably the best tracker ever built. If the wolf couldn't find his missing artifact, then no one could.

_What about Kel'Thuzad?_

_The old man's engrossed in something involving magic. Whatever it is, it's beyond me. Hopefully he won't notice his prize pet is missing before Strygwyr returns._

_Okay._

_Okay what?_

_Okay, I owe you._

_I know you do. _

The connection was cut off and Balanar felt his consciousness being dragged away from the void of darkness. Finally some luck, he thought. The pair could be sent after the artifact and he could focus his attacks upon Ashenvale. Ashenvale forest would become the deciding factor in the invasion. The Night Elves were defending the forest with all their vigor. It was after all, home to many of them. But once Ashenvale fell, he could expand westwards freely, and strike with more ships from the south. In other words: Once Ashenvale burned, Kalimdor would follow.


	6. Old Friends

A/N: Its been a while since last update. I wrote this a long time ago, but I planned to change it because I wrote it in a specific manner which I dislike. I didn't end up changing it because it doesn't affect the plot overall.

They called it the Dead Scar. It was a stretch of blighted land left by the Lich King that split the kingdom of Quel'Thalas in half. These days, the undead still tread upon the Scar. But that was of little concern to the assorted parties gathering at the gates of Quel'Thalas. Humans, dwarves, trolls, orcs and even elves were gathering outside its gates. Despite their differences, they were here all for two things: Fame and Fortune.

It was possibly the biggest bounty in history. The elves of Quel'Thalas were offering one hundred thousand pieces of gold to the one who returned the head of the leader of the Scourge on the Isle of Quel'Danas. The Isle had long been an integral part of high elf culture, as it was the source of their power. The corruption of the land was salt to the wound after the Lich King had defiled the Sun Well. The leader of the Scourge forces on the Isle was believed to be Dar'Khan Drathir, the traitor who had been responsible for the fall of Quel'Thalas having helped the Lich King slip through the rune stones.

Gondar stood in the shadow of a large oak that had survived on the edge of the Scar observing the bounty hunters. He was waiting for one in particular. One he had not seen in many months. The reward had drawn people from every corner of Azeroth: Famous hunters, mercenary parties and many fresh faces. Most of them are barely men, Gondar mused as he scrutinized his competition.

He had a reputation himself. There was only Krokul bounty hunter on Azeroth, and he was one of the best. These days Gondar usually hid his alien features under a long cloak and a hood that covered his face. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned.

Another cloaked figure was walking slowly down the Dead Scar. Gondar felt his heartbeat quicken as one of the mindless undead turned from its mindless amble and started towards the new comer. The Krokul's grip tightened on his shuriken as the figure seemed to ignore the new threat from behind. Now only a few feet away, the zombie lunged towards its target as black flames suddenly swirled from within the bounty hunter. The zombie burned silently as the black flames consumed its skeletal frame. The bounty hunter continued as if nothing had happened. Gondar noticed only a slight hesitation as the bounty hunter passed the Oak tree which hid Gondar. The Krokul's eyes narrowed.

"So the rumors are true," he said as he stepped out from the shadows of the Oak. "I would not have believed it. You are the Black Widow."

Before him, the bounty hunter stopped but did not turn.

"What happened to you," Gondar continued. "You left without a trace! Why?"

The figure remained silent.

"We were a team!"

No response.

"Answer me!" Gondar shouted as the figure turned with an elegant hand gesture and a jet of black flame leapt towards him.

Rolling quickly to his right, Gondar's left hand unleashed a shuriken. It was a well practiced movement, fluid and graceful. Returning to his feet, Gondar watched as his throwing star flew towards its mark. The Black Widow stood unflinching, only taking a step to the right to avoid the incoming projectile.

"What do you feel Gondar?" asked the pyromancer in a mocking tone. "Do you feel betrayed? You were always a little slow. Perhaps you need another example!"

The bounty hunter flickered and disappeared as another jet of black flame reached him.

"What have you done? Your flames were never black!"

The Black Widow remained still, cloak fluttering in the morning breeze. The pair's activities had gathered the attention of other hunters, who were watching with rapt attention. No one seemed keen to interfere with the two well known bounty hunters.

"You once told me that the color of a pyromancer's fire reflects what is in his heart. What has happened to you?" Gondar growled as he reappeared behind the Black Widow who made another hand gesture. Dark flames roared to life around the pair. He was trapped inside the blazing inferno.

"You don't need to understand. All you need to do is die!" was the cold reply.

Gondar watched as the wall of flame swirled closer. There was no way out. He took a deep breath. "I owe you a life debt. If this is how it will be paid," he said slowly. "Then so be it."

The Black Widow laughed harshly. "It is such a cruel world, and yet you are so naïve Gondar, it is a wonder you have survived this long without me."

The wall of black flame swirled closer.

"If I am going to die, then at least tell me this. What happened to you? You owe me that much," demanded Gondar as the Black Widow turned to face him.

He could see beneath the hood for the first time, and what he saw made him recoil in horror. Deadly eyes stared back at him from an unchanging haunted expression. A once healthy complexion had been replaced by skeletal features. It was as if his friend had become a different person.

"I owe you nothing," the Black Widow said as the flames licked the edges of his cloak. "Goodbye Gondar."

Gondar did not close his eyes. He kept them firmly locked firmly on his savior, friend and now killer. His eyes held no hate, no anger, only regret.

"Enough! There will be no squabbling here!" said a strong voice from outside the inferno.

The pyromancer's eyes widened with shock as the inferno died out abruptly. A blood elf appeared next to the pair, runes on his hand glowing brightly. The elf wore the uniform of a 'Defender of Quel'Thalas' with the three white etches on the side of his shield revealing him to be an honor guard of the Regent Lord.

"Now come, the Regent Lord has an announcement to make," the guard said as he turned to leave.

Gondar noticed the pyromancer's hand make a flicking movement towards the guard's back. But nothing happened. With a shrug at Gondar, the Black Widow followed him through the gates of Quel'Thalas and into the Bazaar where the other hunters were gathering.


	7. Avatar of the Moon

Luna's horn pierced through the din of battle as she summoned another sliver of moonlight to fell an undead minion. The sliver was weak, it barely stunned the minion, betraying to the enemy how spent the priestess was. The horn's message was simple: disperse and meld away.

It had been a trap from the beginning. A supplies wagon they had ambushed, much like many they had done in the previous weeks, had instead been filled with undead warriors. It had always been so simple. That's why they had become lax. Luna cursed. What had become common in her daily routine had suddenly become a fight for her life and her soldiers. In hindsight, Luna knew she should have expected something like this.

With one last look back at the battle, she saw her soldiers attempting to disengage from combat and return the safety of the forest shadows. She saw a soldier hobble towards her; the warrior's leg was injured. The huntress was shouting something at her but Luna remained frozen. She reached perhaps six steps before a sword blossomed from her chest. Luna saw her face contort in agony as she collapsed on the ground to reveal a skeletal warrior much larger than the others. The huge warrior barely spared the fallen Night Elf a glance as he withdrew the massive sword. Freeing his sword, the undead turned his attention to Luna and roared a challenge.

Luna fled.

_So many dead_, her mind screamed at her as her legs carried swiftly through the familiar forest. _How will you be able to face your warriors after this? You led them into a trap! Then left them there to die!_

* * *

Leoric watched the Night Elf run for the safety of the trees. With a glance back at his skeletal minions he surveyed the field of battle. The skirmish was won. His plan had gone almost perfectly. His second in command could deal with the aftermath. Loading corpses wasn't exactly difficult.

The Skeleton King lived for battle, so with another roar, he followed the escaping elf deeper into the forest.

* * *

It was called the Shrine of Moonfang. One of the many shrines erected in honor of the fallen from the War of the Ancients. The locations of most shrines werewidely known and were often part of many pilgrimages. This one was however, a secret to even most Night Elves. Not even Tyrande Whisperwind had knowledge of the place before its discovery. A Sentinel scout had, by chance, stumbled upon the location several hundred years ago and it had become an ideal base of operations in Ashenvale for the Sentinel ever since.

No one knew why the Shrine had been forgotten. It had become an accepted fact amongst the warriors. Like the fact that if you entered the catacombs beneath, you would not return. These days, the entrance to the catacombs was sealed.

Luna arrived at the Shrine of Moonfang with a face wet with tears and gasping for breath. She was the first to arrive, and she was alone. Pausing a moment to catch her breath, her ears caught a clatter of bones that turned her face pale.

Turning around, she saw the giant warrior right behind her seeming none the less for wear after the long run. The skeleton clacked something intelligible and raised his sword as a large fireball shot towards her.

Barely avoiding the blast of fire, Luna heard a loud rumble behind her. A quick glance back showed the seals to the catacomb behind her had cracked.  
Another fireblast whooshed past her, singeing the hairs on her skin. Behind her the seals gave way and collapsed to reveal the entrance.

Without a second thought, she ran into the darkness.

* * *

Leoric watched as the elf fled from him for a second time. His second Hellfire Blast had missed by mere inches. The Skeleton King cursed the mindlink that had interrupted his aim. His second was saying something but he wasn't listening. Leoric thought he caught the words another troll. _What is that idiot second doing?_

Cocking his head, the Skeleton King weighed his options. He was reckless, not stupid. The entrance had been sealed for a reason. Perhaps it had simply been erected as a warning. The seal had been too weak to be fortification, too weak to be a prison. Deal with it, and send me some reinforcements, he commanded through his mind link as he terminated it.

Crouching down on the ground, he settled to wait. He would give the Night Elf some time, she would come out. _They always did. Eventually even prey had to come out to feed._

* * *

The crypt wasn't hard to navigate at all. It wasn't really a catacomb. It wasn't even a maze. It was a long corridor that led deeper into the earth. Luna ran through the darkness without turning, without stopping, without thinking of the danger she knew lay ahead.

The passage opened out into a wide chamber. Luna said a small prayer and her hand glowed with moonlight. The walls seemed to be made of some reflective substance, and moonlight reflected clearly around the room.

There were skeletons on the ground. Luna could see the worn leather gear that was standard issue to Sentinel soldiers. _Some things never change, huh?_ One of the soldiers was wearing a helm she didn't recognize. Picking it up, she turned it over in her hands. It was beautifully crafted, something that might have exceeded even the elves in terms of beauty. However, the helm obviously had not saved the elf from death.

Looking up, Luna gasped as she saw the rest of the beautiful suit of armor. It shone brightly back at her from the centre of the room. It must have been ancient, left by the creators of the shrine. Entranced, she slowly raised her hand to feel the cool surface. Her fingers tingled.

_I sense great sorrow in you sister._

"What?" Luna gasped out loud into the darkness.

_Is it the time?_

"Who are you?" Luna asked beginning to wonder if insanity was the cause of death in these halls.

_I am the hand of the Goddess._

* * *

A figure streaked through the forest following the path, Leoric had slashed through. Nearing his destination the figure slowed to a Skeleton King hadn't seen him yet. Nor would he. The Skeleton King had asked for reinforcements. He would have to settle for the newcomer instead.

Listening for any sign of being detected, the figure nimbly ascended the nearest tree and lay on his perch to observe. Afterall, if you wanted a promotion, you needed to be able to replace someone.

* * *

Leoric crouched low as he heard the sounds of footsteps returning from the sealed door. The footsteps seemed different from before. More confident, less hesitant.

The Night Elf appeared in the doorway. Her armor was different, and she was wielding a new weapon. Both were shining brightly, as if new. The  
Skeleton King's eyes narrowed as he watched the Night Elf stride past his hiding spot.

Leoric grinned inwardly, and lunged at his unwary opponent. Then he saw her face, and the grin slipped from his face.

The Night Elf's eyes were glazed white and they shone brightly, angrily at the attacker. Moonlight lit up the area around the pair. It was everywhere.

Leoric felt is frame freeze. He tried to move but his body would not obey. With a dull thud, his blade dropped to the ground. A moment later, he was on his knees. Forcing himself to look up he could see only the sillouhette of his terrifying opponent's hair fluttered wildly as she raised her strange glaive like weapon.

"Who are you?" he managed to grunt.

"I am," intoned the Night Elf in a voice that reeked of power as her weapon began its slow descent towards Leoric. "A hand of the Goddess!"

Long after the Night Elf left the clearing where the corpse of the Skeleton King lay, the figure hopped down from his perch on one of the higher branches. Making his way to the remnants of the undead warrior, he curiously poked at them with his staff.

The skull rolled over to reveal eyes that were very much alive. Eyes that glared back at the intruder.

"Dis not ah good place fo ah nap, Leoric!" the newcomer said cheerfully.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then with a click, two bone fragments reformed together snapping into place to form a spine.

Click! Click! Click! Click! With unholy speed and accuracy, the bits and pieces on the ground clacked together again to form the giant skeleton.

"Yo missing sumfin me thinks," the troll said gleefully as he looked pointedly at the area between Leoric's two massive legs.

"Shut it troll! You were late!" growled Leoric as he surged to his feet.

"Things be happening back at da camp! Wat we do now, ma lord?" his second smirked as he looked up at the towering frame of the Skeleton King.

"We withdraw for now," grunted Leoric as he sheathed his large blade. "Send someone you don't like to report to the Dread Lord. There may be a complication or two."

"Yea, I'll do dat." Dazzle sniggered and left the clearing.

The Skeleton King followed a moment later, glancing back only once towards the direction the Night Elf had left. _The Night Elf was strong_, he thought,_ far too strong for one so young_. With a little luck, they would meet again when he was better prepared. _Next time_, he thought. _She will die_.


	8. The Gambler

Purist leaned back in his seat as he emptied another mug of the tavern's watered down ale. Slamming it down on the table, he signaled for another refill with a wave of his hand. His mind returned to his problem at hand. There was simply no way across. The Scourge occupied the only known route through the mountains into Winterspring. If he continued, he would have to slip through Scourge occupied territory—almost certainly suicide. Yet if he waited much longer, he would be stranded here by the winter snows.

His brief search north and east of Darkshore had yielded no results. Each possible site had been empty, devoid of life or signs of disturbance. His eyes flicked through the patrons and he studied each in turn.

There were new people at the tavern tonight. A group of men were drinking and playing cards in a corner. Soldiers off duty, Purist judged. His roving gaze fell upon an old man drinking in a corner. The old man's boots were dirty and covered in dust and grime. His cloak was worn and torn in places. The old man looked like a weary traveler. That was probably all a normal man would have seen. Probably all he was meant to see. But Purist was not a normal man. His dirty boots hid fine craftsmanship, and his travelling cloak had been amateurishly retailored.

Feeling Purist's penetrating stare, the old man looked up and gave him a crooked smile. With a glance at the soldiers carousing in the corner, he raised a hand and waved him over. Purist ignored him and drained his newly filled mug.

Returning to his predicament, Purist ordered another refill. Staring glumly into space, he barely noticed the scrape of the chair as the old man took a seat next to him. For a time the pair just sat there, drinking and seemingly enjoying the silent companionship.

Finally the old man spoke, "You know, I made my life out of reading other  
people's faces. I became so good I could tell what they were thinking just by watching their eyes."

Purist listened quietly as finished another mug.

The old man took another sip and continued quietly, "So I hope you don't mind me saying, I can see you're at crossroads."

Purist turned towards his new companion for the first time. "I am not impressed," he said blandly.

"Scales, drinks are on me," he said taking a coin from within the folds of his robes, "Goblins, drinks are on you."

Nodding his assent, the old man spun the coin in the air and let it land on the table. His eyes remained on young paladin the whole time. Purist held his stare.

Finally unable to resist, Purist's eyes twitched downwards for a glimpse of the coin before returning to meet the old man's unflinching gaze.

A minute past before old man smiled and reached down to pick up his coin.

Without looking at it, he put it in his pocket and said with an apologetic smile, "Looks like drinks are on you this time."

"You looked," Purist accused.

"Of course I did," the old man continued in that mildly amused tone, "It was written all over your face."

"So who are you really?" he asked, changing the subject as he waved the inn keeper over for another round.

"I like to describe myself these days as a poor traveler, maybe even an old fool. Or a jester, take your pick," the old man replied leaning closer, "but this is not about me, it is about you and what you plan to do or not to do in the near and immediate future."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" asked Purist incredulously. "The Light is not blind old man, your boots are made for those of wealth, and your cloak looks like it had a family crest sewn upon it. Your language is that of a learned man. You are no travelling… "

The old man raised his eyebrows. "If you want to live a long life, my young friend, then you will believe it," he said calmly in that same mild tone. "I promise you no harm, and in return I ask that you do not question my past. Do we have a deal?" He held up a worn deck of cards. In an expert flourish, he fanned them out.

Purist pondered his companion for a moment before agreeing.

The old man started to deal in a quick and efficient manner. Purist recognized the game easily, it was possibly the most common card game ever created for gamblers. The old man took out a small satchel of coins and set it on the table. Purist noticed it was almost empty. Putting aside his dilemma, he followed suit, and picked up his hand.

The games began with copper coins, before progressing quickly to silvers. The old man was good. He was very good. Purist could catch nothing from his stone gaze. Most games however, Purist won because his opponent folded. In fact, Purist seemed to win most of the time. The old gambler's small pile of coins had gotten progressively smaller throughout the night. But he seemed not to notice.

"Last round for me I think," grumbled the gambler as he picked up his new hand. "Maybe the Lady Luck will smile on me this time."

Purist checked his hand. He had a pair of knaves. He pushed two silver coins into the pile.

The old man paused. Then pushed his last two silver coins into the pot. They both exchanged two cards.

"Shall we call it then old man," asked Purist, as he looked at his hand. He now had two pairs.

"Well, I think I have a gold coin or two somewhere," said the old man slowly as he patted his pockets.

"Aha!" he said triumphantly producing the gold coin he had flipped earlier. He put it in the pot.

Purist matched it without hesitation. "Well?"

The old man produced another coin and for just that instant, Purist thought he caught the faint flicker of a smile. He was being played he realized. The old man was expertly and subtly playing the pot on this last game on purpose. He knew he was going to win. Realizing he was trapped, Purist stopped his hand that was already pushing a second gold coin into the pile to match.

"No," he said slowly. "You win old man. I fold."

The old man smiled and scraped his winnings into his satchel, filling it to the brim.

"Who are you really?" asked Purist again.

"I told you, I'm just a gambler," he laughed.

Picking his first gold coin out of his bag, he twirled it in his fingers. "But I like you boy, so I'll give you one piece of advice."

"Go on," Purist said guardedly.

"Lady Luck favors the brave. She will never smile for the indecisive or the cowardly. Here," he said as he flicked the coin towards the Omniknight. "Keep it. Make your own luck."

Purist caught it reflexively and examined the coin closely. The goblin seal was perfectly engraved upon it. Turning it over, he saw an identical seal.

A look of comprehension suddenly dawned on his pale face. He looked up again only to see the silhouette of the old man slip silently out of the tavern.

"Make your own luck?" he repeated slowly to himself.

Another thought struck the young paladin. Quickly spinning back towards the table, he reached for the gambler's last hand. The old man had bluffed with a pair of twos.

"Make my own luck huh?" whistled Purist softly. "I think I will."


	9. Dark Lady

The Ruins of Lordaeron were strangely quiet and tranquil from above. Not what one would expect for the city of the Undead. Traxex looked down upon the peaceful serenity of the Tirisfal Glades from her perch on the Zepplin tower. Behind her, the trolls were unloading the artifact off the goblin airship. Her dark curls moved gently in the soft breeze as she absentmindedly raked her fingers through them, red eyes gazing downwards intently. There were no signs of life on the surface.

A firm hand gripped her shoulder. "This be where we part ways then, Drow Ranger," said Rhasta quietly.

Traxex felt her insides go cold. "You knew?" she whispered.

"No," replied the troll with a glance back at his other three companions. "Vol'jin warned me the night before he left. We do not know what to make of you, so we will let the Dark Lady decide. I for one, do not believe you to be Scourge. Neither does Vol'jin. Consider this advice from a friend, Traxex. When you face the Banshee Queen, do not lie. Do not try to hide things. Put your faith in truth."

Traxex closed her eyes, as she felt the tension drain from her body. "Thank you, Shaman. You have no idea how much this mean to me."

"Good luck," Rhasta gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before letting go. "And proceed with caution. Your name appears to have stirred things up amongst the Deathstalkers, although they refuse to say why."

"Traxex," interrupted a Forsaken guard from behind with a swift salute. "Varimathras is most anxious to hear your report. He is waiting in the Royal Quarter."  
Vorel cast a quick glance back at Rhasta. But the Shaman was already gone.

"Well, I guess it's better than 'prisoner' I guess," Vorel sighed quietly as she followed the Undead down the tower and into the depths of the Undercity.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

* * *

"I'm sorry Captain, but time is short and we must reach Ashenvale," Rhasta explained patiently.

"No way!" said the goblin. "This ship was redirected once by request of Orgrimmar, won't happen again!"

"Let me handle this," muttered Huskar to Rhasta who nodded.

"I'm going to say this to you once goblin," said Huskar quietly. "Turn this ship around."

"No way!" yelped the goblin Captain. "This ship goes to the jungles of Stranglethorn Vale, they'd have my hide if it di—"

The goblin's protests were cut off as he suddenly felt himself wrenched off his feet .  
"Hey let me down!" he spluttered, looking up at the offending troll who now held him three feet off the ground.  
An angry pair of red eyes glared back at him. "Does anyone else know how to fly this thing?" asked Huskar in that same deadly tone.

The captain's eyes slid to other crew members pleadingly. "No, no please—"

Huskar had carried the small goblin, and now held him over the edge of the Zepplin. "I'll ask you one last time goblin; does anyone else know how to fly this ship?"

"No!" yelped the goblin in sheer terror, his short legs flailing wildly in the air. "Please don't do thi—"

"Liar," growled the troll and released him.  
The goblin's screams slowly faded into the distance as he plummeted towards the ground. Huskar turned to face the other crew members. He picked one out at random.

"You!" he growled, pointing. "Do you know how to fly this ship?" The goblin nodded frantically, his face a pale shade of green.

"Very good Captain, turn this ship around."

"Yes sir!"

Huskar walked over towards Rhasta, who had seated himself on the deck to watch, and muttered, "And that, my friend. Is how you get green skinned midgets to listen!"

Rhasta frowned. "I'm not sure Vol'jin would approve of your methods, Huskar."

"I am a Sacred Warrior," he replied his large hands bunching into fists. "A protector of my Jin, a guardian of my people. Only the result matters to me Rhasta, you of all trolls should understand that."

* * *

The descent into the Undercity was stifling for Vorel. She felt like a cornered rat. She could see why the Undercity had set up its lifts this way. Any attackers would be limited by the lifts to gain entrance. The Undercity was a fortress. Of course, this design was not without its flaws. Everyone was trapped down here and would be unable to escape, should invaders manage to break through of course.

The walls of the city were dirty, and the canals were full of green slime. Vorel felt right at home. Her guards seemed to insist on walking half a step behind, almost as if they were an escort.

"Do you no longer remember the layout of your home, Traxex?" joked one of them as she completed a full trip around the inner ring.

"What?" she turned to glare him.

The guard withered under the glare. "Nothing, Traxex."

Ignoring them, she turned right at the next opening and headed back towards outer rings. The clattering sounds of steel as swords clashed filled their ears.

"Traxex, perhaps we should make haste. Varimathras is most anxious to hear your report," said the guard, his tone suddenly nervous.

"Surely, a few minutes would not matter," Vorel bluffed. She figured that if she kept walking in larger circles, eventually she would find the right place.

Turning left and ducking her head, she passed another group Forsaken soldiers.

"Ah, another Ranger! Excellent! Come, shoot with me," called a melodic voice. Traxex turned, hand automatically reaching towards her bow.

Two quick thumps sounded behind her. Vorel turned to find her guards standing attentively, fists to chests, staring straight ahead.

The newcomer was as beautiful as her voice, if one did not look too closely, she could have passed as a night elf. She held a bow loosely in her hand, and her boots did not make a sound on the stone cold floor of the Undercity.

Accompanying her was a Banshee in spirit form. The Wailer drifted by her side blending into the background. Vorel was frozen in awe as she approached them in swift graceful strides. This must be her, she thought. Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen. The Dark Lady.

Following her guard's lead, fist went to chest as she saluted the Queen of the Forsaken.

The Queen's lips stretched into a small smile. "Forgive me Ranger, but running a city must be getting to me. I cannot match your face to a name—"

"But my Lady, this is the Traxex," exclaimed her escort. Then undead eyes narrowed as realization dawned on him and he continued quietly, "that is unless—"

"Ah, the Traxex. Yes of course," Sylvanas said, cutting off the guard.

Whatever semblance of a smile that had been there was now gone. Traxex felt like a rabbit trapped in a wolf den.

"My Lady, I can ex—" she started. But the Queen cut her off again with a raised hand in a dismissive gesture. "Guards, leave us."

"Yes, my Lady." Her two guards bowed and left.

"All of you," stated the Queen, looking at the pair of undead carrying the artifact, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. "Leave that there."

The Banshee Queen raised her hand again and pointed at the casket the guards had left behind. It lurched three feet off the ground and slowly hovered towards her. Turning around, she motioned for Vorel to follow her and elegantly glided back towards the War Quarter with the artifact following behind

The target dummies were still over three hundred feet away when she stopped. "Running a city is more stressful than you might think Traxex," she said as she notched an arrow. "I find shooting to be a surprisingly good way to reduce it." Like a whisper, the arrow streaked away from the pair and with a faint thud, made contact with a dummy. Even with her eyesight, Vorel could barely see the arrow lodged within the wooden dummy.

Her small smile back on her face, she stepped back to allow Vorel to take a shot. With a small sigh, Vorel gripped her bow, and in one fluid practiced motion, withdrew an arrow, notched, and shot. The arrow landed an inch below the Queen's. She stepped back warily.

"Let us drop all pretenses," said the Banshee Queen as she stepped forward to take another shot. "I know all my rangers, if not by name then by face. You are not a Forsaken Archer and you are most certainly not the Traxex."

Her second arrow landed an inch below her previous one. Splitting Vorel's in half. A shaft shot. She stepped back again, seemingly unperturbed at the dangerous direction the conversation was going.

Figuring she had nothing to lose, Traxex withdrew a second arrow from her quiver as she stepped forward and said quietly, "I don't know who I am anymore." She raised her bow again and released. Her arrow landed half an inch above the Queen's first shot.

"So who do you want to be?" asked the Queen as she replaced Vorel to take her shot.

"I want to be Forsaken. I am free from the Lich King's grasp. I have turned my back on the Drow," said Vorel forcefully.

The Queen's third shot split her second. "To be Forsaken," the Queen mused. "You already are. You are not part of the Scourge, and you are shunted by the living. Sometimes I envy ignorance like yours. You wish to be Forsaken? I tell you that you already are. But you do not even know what we stand for. Nor do I think you would understand. We are at war, a war against the dead," she paused to take a step back and turn around to catch her eyes, "and the living."

Instead of taking a step forward, Vorel took half a step back and picked another arrow. "I hold no hatred towards the living, Dark Lady. I could say I do but that would be a lie. The living, they see us as a shade of the Scourge and from what I can see, little has been done to erase that notion."  
Vorel raised her bow much higher than previously, and stretched her bow the limit. Her arrow flew into the darkness of the rooftops and out of sight.

"The war is against an embodiment of death itself, my Lady," she continued. "There is no victory to be had, only eternal rest. Perhaps that in itself is the victory. The war against the living is similar. How would we be different from the Scourge? We are the damned, my Lady. My time with the trolls has allowed me to realize that. But that does not mean all hate us. To continue fighting both the dead and the living will only have one result..."

Her arrow came down almost vertically. Snapping all three of the Queen's in half and wrenching the shafts from the target.

"…we will be wiped out."

The Queen looked at her thoughtfully. "You know Traxex. Your predecessor said the same to me before she left. I only realized after she disappeared, that she had chosen to work with the Deathstalkers. Now I think I know why."

"My predecessor?" asked Vorel.

"Traxex is a rank, not a name Ranger. The Traxex is the hand of the Banshee Queen and is able to see and do things amongst the Forsaken a Queen cannot. I don't care who you are, but your words show that you understand my dilemmas as the ruler of the undead." She glared at Vorel. "I come here to forget my problems. You are not making that easy Traxex."

"My Lady, I cannot possibly be—"

"You're not, but you are as good as any. I had not picked a replacement. I had not planned to. But I guess sometimes fate has different ideas for all of us. Now I believe you have quite a tale to tell," she said hopefully.

Traxex smiled. "I believe I do my Qu—"

"My name is Sylvanas, Traxex. The titles get tiring at times."

"Sylvanas it is then, but perhaps I should begin with the—"

"My Lady, forgive my intrusion, but I must speak with the Traxex," interrupted a coarse voice from behind.

"Very well, Dread Lord. Speak," said the Banshee Queen.

"Thank you, my Queen," replied Varimathras. "Come Traxex. We ha—"

"Whatever must be said to the new Traxex, Dread Lord, will be said here," Sylvanas cut in.

"New Traxex, my Queen?" spluttered Varimathras taking a closer look at the Ranger who had turned to face the newcomer. "But I tho—"

"Whatever you thought, Dread Lord, you thought wrong. Now if there is nothing else of pressing importance—"

"A Dread Lord? Tell me, do you share any connection with Balanar?" asked Traxex inquisitively, an idea beginning to take hold in her mind.

"That construct? That pathetic excuse Kel'Thuzad constructed to mimic Nathzerim shares similar powers, yes. But otherwise, I would hate to be connected to such a wea—"

"Excellent, you should be able to open that and save us a lot of time then." Vorel pointed at the casket that had loyally stayed hovering three feet behind them.

"What is inside?" asked the Queen with curiosity in her eyes.

"I don't know, I am guessing some kind of artifact, maybe a weapon. It was a special package sent to Balanar, the Dread Lord who leads the Kalimdor Invasion, I was told only he could open it."

"Yes, yes," said Varimathras examining the box closely. "I recognize the seals. It requires a small—"  
He trailed off as he placed a hand on the lid. A moment passed. Then his hand started to glow a dark purple, "—touch of the chaotic energy used by the Nathzerim to trigger the unlocking mechanism. There," he said triumphantly as the lid slid off. He peered inside and froze. "I…I don't believe it. This is impossible!"

"What is it? Out with it, Varimathras. You know I am not fond of games," growled the Queen of the Forsaken.

Varimathras just pointed mutely at the box whilst shaking his head in disbelief. The two rangers peered in for a closer look. The same shocked expression enveloped their undead faces.

"Frostmourne?" gasped the Banshee Queen. "No. That's impossible. The Lich King would never part with his blade."  
Still shaking his head in disbelief, the Dread Lord reached in and grasped the blade by its hilt. With a tiny hiss, it flared to life. Dark blue runes dancing along the sword's edge, giving off a slight trace of blue vapor, as it chilled the air around it.

"Amazing," breathed Varimathras as he raised the sword. "The power...it is intoxicating."

"So it is real then?" asked Sylvanas.

"No. I have felt the same power, maybe more simply by being around Arthas when he wielded Frostmourne. This must be an imitation, a very good one at that." The Nathzerim's pupils had dilated and he seemed to be in a trance. "Yes, yes," he continued in the trancelike state. "It will be done."

"What's this Dread Lord?" asked the Banshee Queen, eyes narrowing.

Slowly, Varimathras turned to face his Queen. There was a pause as he stared blankly. For a moment, Traxex felt sure that he was about to attack. Subconsciously, she notched an arrow to protect her new sovereign.

"My Queen, this is just a copy. It is nothing compared to the original. However, I believe that this was crafted by the Legion. Even the Lich King cannot create something like this." His eyes had returned to their normal void like state, a pool of darkness that reflected nothing. The moment was gone.

"What will be done?" questioned Vorel, still suspicious.

Varimathras waved in a dismissively. "Just something I remembered, Traxex. I must speak with Putress, if you will excuse me, my Queen."

"Wait a minute," said Sylvanas. "This blade, you are sure it's a copy?"

"Yes, my Queen." Varimathras bowed as he slowly retreated towards the doors. "It would appear it was built as a mimic to the original that Arthas wields. I do not know the extent of its power, nor do I wish to find out. Now, if you will excuse me."

"Yes, yes go," said Sylvanas her eye still on the sword. "Hmm I wonder."

Traxex watched as the Dread Lord almost fled from the Royal Quarter. He seemed different from the confident and arrogant Varimathras that had entered the chambers. Traxex wondered what had happened when he held the blade. Her gaze returned to the offending object.

"So, Traxex," said Sylvanas bringing her out of her reverie. "How would you like to take a trip north?"

"North?" Traxex looked up to find her Queen with a gleam in her eyes.

"Quel'thalas to be precise. Our Blood Elf allies are launching an invasion upon the Isle of Quel'Danas. So far I have offered no aid, as I believe it to be a futile effort. However, this would be the perfect opportunity to test such a weapon."

"You mean you wish to use the Blood Elves to test this demon wrought edge?"

"Simply giving them a gift to aid their efforts," corrected Sylvanas the gleam still in her eyes.

"Yes, of course. A gift," replied Traxex slowly. She wasn't sure she liked the idea of using their allies as guinea pigs.

"And of course, the courier of such a gift may end up being persuaded to help them on such a grand crusade," said the Queen carefully. "Normally our messengers remain strictly non-combatant. However, if the courier was the Traxex, then she could do whatever she wanted to help."

Understanding dawned. It was a chance to prove her allegiance. Traxex grinned, "When do I leave?"

Sylvanas just smiled.


End file.
